I took the pistol out of the bedside cabinet and fingered it, tried to get my head around the idea of carrying it from now on, then went to the window. The house had a name – Walter called it Fern Cottage, though I hadn’t noticed a single fern yet – and had an interesting history. I’d found a hand-drawn survey map of the place last night and studied it before going to bed. There was an old, now covered-over, freshwater spring at the back. Around it, unfortunately, stood the only trees anywhere close to the house, a small copse of scruffy, aged conifers. If an attacker could get to it, it would provide good cover and thus I didn’t care for it one bit. However, without taking a chainsaw to the lot of them, there was nothing much I could do about it.
To the right of the house was the locked, windowless garage where my car was securely parked. A hedgeless driveway meandered from my front door, past the garage, to a nearby minor road further east. On three sides of the house there was unkempt grassland but in front was a small, messy garden, fortunately without anything growing there taller than about shoulder height. Beyond the garden was what had attracted me here in the first place; the Long Field as it was called by the few who knew of its existence. A stretch of perfectly level, asphalt covered flatland; it had been used as a military airfield during World War Two. Walter had once jokingly asked me to land there. Underneath I sensed he was serious and had told him to go to hell.
I picked up my binoculars, went to the front bedroom, and scanned the airstrip. Deserted since the Sixties, it was now desolate and overgrown; the asphalt cracked and rutted. Apart from one big hangar, the two or three graffiti covered concrete buildings on the far side were roofless and in ruins. Anyone wanting to get to them would have to cross completely open ground where they would stand out like an ant on a blank sheet of white paper. I’d chosen even better than I’d thought. It was like having a deserted car park in front of the cottage.
That left night-time. Last night I’d slept in the back bedroom; tonight it would be the front one. There were motion sensitive lights at both front and back doors. The cottage itself was old but the doors and windows were new and connected by pressure strips to the alarm system.
I showered and got dressed, tucked María’s rosary under a long, round necked t-shirt and put on a sturdy pair of walking shoes. The gun had to come with me but it must not be visible, either to my pursuer or anyone else. Also, I had to be able to access it quickly and easily, make a glitch-free draw, or else the damned thing would only be a liability. All of which presented me with a problem. I sat on the bed for a few minutes, thinking hard, then went to the wardrobe and took out an old wire coat hanger.
Down in the kitchen I had a healthy bowl of bran flakes with skimmed milk and a mug of strong Italian coffee. Under the sink, I found a toolbox containing the roll of black masking tape and pair of wire cutters that I needed. I cut and removed the hook from the hanger, straightened the remaining wire and folded it in half. Using pliers, I bent the folded end about one inch from the loop and then, about two inches higher up, bent it again, making an ‘S’ shape.
Taking the pistol, I measured the length of the doubled wire against it and marked a bend point at the opposite end to the S-shape. I bent the wire at that end and then cut the rest of it off, creating a barrel hook about two inches long. All that remained to do was tape the S part for comfort and hook it snugly underneath my belt. The double wire hook slid inside the business end of the barrel, holding it securely.
I tucked the holstered pistol under my t-shirt, straightened up, and practiced drawing the weapon. It felt a bit ridiculous, like something out of the Wild West, till I reminded myself that getting this right could save my life. The first few times I fumbled badly and even ended up drawing the holster along with the gun. I had to get it down to a single, seamless motion; even half a second might make a crucial difference.
After more practice, I broke it down into three parts. First, I used my thumb to hook and sweep my shirt out of the way so that the pistol didn’t get tangled up. Second, I used my free hand to hold the shirt up while my right hand lifted the gun out of the wire holster. Finally, I brought my free hand down to support my drawing hand as I pointed the gun at the target. In this case, my target was the hot tap on the kitchen sink. Once I nearly pulled the trigger. No doubt I would have missed the tap and shot the window out.
I put everything away, took a deep breath in the hallway, and set the alarm. Outside, I paused at the door. A tense, nervous energy ran through my body. Here I was, the self-appointed Judas goat, ready to lead my tormentor into a trap. Under my long t-shirt the heavy gun felt secure and well-concealed. I was pretty sure I’d get used to it quickly, and that I could use it in self defense when it became necessary. If I was a goat pursed by a tiger, I now had pretty sharp teeth of my own.
There was utter silence at the front door. Not even a bee hummed in the still air. All at once the remoteness of this place hit me like a punch in the solar plexus and I looked around nervously. What if my hunter had a sniper rifle trained on me right at this moment? They could kill someone from a mile or more away, couldn’t they? Would he take a head shot, spread my brains around like a rotten cauliflower, or put the bullet in my heart? I’d read that gunshot wounds to the belly led to a slow, excruciatingly painful death, so maybe he’d choose that?
I hurried from the doorway and strode down the driveway to the lane. He wouldn’t take a sniper shot even if he could. I realised that as soon as I moved. Apart from the difficulty of obtaining such a weapon in Canada, he’d want to face me, pronounce my execution in solemn, self-congratulatory tones. If it was who I thought it was . . .
Chapter 33
As I walked down the lane I reminded myself that anyone following me would be noticeable. There were no vacationers around here for him to hide among. The lane quickly became hedged in on either side and I immediately turned off into open fields where I’d be safer.
I spent the morning making a reconnaissance of my surroundings and discovered I’d chosen even better than I’d thought. This was the perfect spot to pretend to have run away and hid, friendless and unprotected. I had no doubt that the tiger would come here and pounce on the vulnerable goat. From time to time I brushed the inside of my wrist against the hidden pistol, a reassuring bulge under my loose shirt.
After coffee and a beef sandwich lunch, I spent the afternoon in the garden. I carried an old hoe around, lifting weeds out here and there. It was good exercise, a stress reliever, and gave me an excuse to rake over the beds so they would show any footprints next time I checked.
At three o’clock I went inside for a can of Diet Pepsi and a break from the sunshine. There were no messages on the old-fashioned landline phone, which was not surprising as only Walter could have called me. I crushed the empty can flat and decided to cross the Long Field and walk to Fort Stuart. In town the pistol bulge under my t-shirt would be obvious to anyone close to me. To hide it, I put on a light jacket and set out.
The Long Field was going to be important to me. It would be my main route by foot to and from the cottage. There was no way I was going to risk the lane if I could help it, with its high hedges on both sides and not a soul in sight. Moving across the dilapidated airstrip I could always be sure that I was being neither followed nor ambushed, and if anyone did appear I could quickly vanish behind the ruined concrete huts overgrown with brambles and dandelions. It would be impossible for my enemy to predict where I intended to leave the cracked asphalt and enter an adjoining field.
I had barely started out when I encountered him. He raced up to me and literally knocked me down. I hit the asphalt on my right side and the hard edges of the pistol dug into my bare flesh. Then he was on top of me, trapping me underneath him, saliva dripping from his mouth onto my face.
I pushed the dog off me and sat up. So much for being prepared for anything. It was some sort of mongrel mixture of spaniel and terrier, with small, floppy ears and brown and white colouring. There was no collar around its neck but it h
ad to belong to one of the farming families nearby. Being a country dog, no doubt it was kept outdoors all day long and largely ignored by its hardworking owners. Apart from pawing at the odd beetle, it probably had little to do. By the gleam in its eyes and the wagging, thumping tail I could tell it already considered me its new playmate.
“Any other time, buddy,” I said to him. This wasn’t what I wanted at all. A dog at my feet would not only be distracting, it would bounce around and yelp and declare my exact location to all and sundry. I shooed it away and turned my back on it.
All to no avail. The stupid mutt kept following me no matter how many times I tried to get rid of it. I soon gave up and it trotted along beside me, snuffling around and making enough random noise to waken the dead. I might as well have held a white flag aloft and stuck a bull’s-eye on my chest.
Eventually I turned and headed back. At the cottage I led the dog into the kitchen, left out a soup bowl of fresh water and a plate of canned meat, and locked the dog in the room. The kitchen floor was old-fashioned ceramic tiles; any dog mess would not be hard to clean up.
“Sorry, mate,” I said. It finished the meat and looked at me with sad eyes as if betrayed. Then it pawed the fridge door hoping to get at more food and forgot about my existence.
I crossed the Long Field and kept going till I got to Fort Stuart. The main street was only a few blocks long and right in the middle of it stood an old-fashioned brick building with an unadventurous name, the Windsor Hotel. It had a small restaurant and bar on the ground floor and I went inside to the latter.
The place was empty at that time of day and the barman was alone. He was a thin, dark-haired man in his mid-fifties, with a wiry moustache and melancholic expression. I ordered a double whiskey and water. He took it down to the end of the bar where I was sitting and I watched him, biding my time, till my glass was empty. I signalled for another.
“Is Fred Sampson around?” I asked when he brought it.
“You’re looking at him,” he replied, “You’re new here, right? Like it so far?”
“Yes,” I replied, “Name’s Cal Knox. I’m staying out at Walter Lemesurier’s place. He said you knew him?”
“Haven’t seen Walter in ages,” Sampson replied, “Used to drink here a lot. Good tipper.”
“Hotel must be busy?” I asked, getting right to the point.
He rubbed a long, bony finger over his moustache. “Always plenty of tourists around at this time of year.”
“Any others? Individuals on a job?”
“One or two.”
“Walter said you might be able to help me with that.” I licked my dry lips and carried on. “I’m not exactly famous or anything,” I explained, “But I have a reporter following me, trying to dig up dirt on my family. You know the type. I just want a quiet vacation. Has he been in here?”
He gave me a look. “I’m not allowed to comment on guests, sir.”
I took out my wallet, extracted a fifty dollar bill I could ill afford to spend, and slipped it across the counter. Sampson looked at it for several seconds then slid it off and stuffed it into his pants’ pocket.
“Room thirty-three,” he said in a low voice, “I work on the front desk in the mornings. Sour looking guy; don’t like his attitude. Asked about your cottage and the old airfield out there.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Have another on the house,” Sampson replied. He refilled my glass and walked off.
I thought about what I’d just learned and how I could act on it. My tiger could be up there in his room right now. I imagined him lying on his bed, polishing his gun, perhaps screwing a silencer onto the end. He hears a knock at the door and shouts “Come in.” I walk in and he raises the automatic . . .
Well, maybe, but not likely. All I knew was; I wanted up there. I sought confirmation, needed it like a thirsty man in the desert needs water. If I was going to try to get into his room it made sense to wait until tomorrow, to come here again around mid-morning when the maid service would be cleaning his room. I nodded my head slightly, confirming to myself the wisdom of the plan. That’s what I’ll do.
I downed the last half of the whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down noisily. At the other end of the bar, Sampson stared at me for a second and then looked away. I stood up and left, my mind made up.
The three double whiskies had loosened me up considerably and must have given me Dutch courage. Or perhaps they just made me act stupidly. There was no way that I was going all the way back to the cottage to spend another night there, without at least doing a reconnaissance of the tiger’s room first.
I went out the front door, walked to the end of the block and approached the hotel from the alleyway.
Chapter 34
At the rear there was a low stone wall with a raised grassy area behind it, broken up by four parking spaces. Two of them were filled; one by a silver Toyota Corolla, the other by a blue Ford van. Two green dumpsters stood to the right, one of them propped open. In the middle of the building, about head height, gray steam poured out of a wall vent, perhaps indicating a laundry room. The back door was to the right of it. It was wedged ajar.
I went through the open door and heard the hum of washing machines on my left. Straight ahead, another room opened up in which I could see stainless steel counters and racks of pots hanging from the ceiling. Obviously the kitchen. A pile of empty cardboard boxes lay on the floor and I picked one up. Holding the box high on my shoulder, I walked into the kitchen and rapidly assessed the room.
An old, fat cook was cutting vegetables over a deep sink. He turned his head to look at me and I moved the box around so that he couldn’t see my face. With a purposeful stride, I marched on through the room as if I knew exactly where I was going. The tactic probably wouldn’t have worked in a busy city hotel but I prayed it would get me into this sleepy little place.
It did. There was no protest from the cook as I exited the kitchen and carried on down the hallway to the front of the building. I found the elevator, called the car and went inside. There was no way that a building this small could have thirty-three guest suites, so I assumed Room 33 indicated a room on the third floor. I punched ‘3’ on the display and lowered the box.
What if my pursuer decided to come down at this very moment? A ding announced my arrival and my hand flew to the gun at my waist, my thumb pushing up the t-shirt. The elevator door opened, revealing an empty corridor. I stepped out.
My eyes checked the ceiling and walls. There were no video cameras in a place like this. I found Room 33, about halfway between the elevator and the back stairs. Again, there was a simple lock with a lever handle on the door, rather than an electronic key-card slot like city hotels.
I’d got this far with relative ease and wondered if I could get even further. It was now late afternoon and I was pretty sure the tiger be somewhere close to the cottage, watching for me, perhaps planning the best time and place for my assignation. On the other hand, he could be on the other side of the door.
I had a big decision to make. A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead, into my eye. I wiped it dry, rubbed my forehead a little to clear away the whiskey fog. My hand went to the pistol, extracted it.
I knocked on the door with my left hand. No sound inside. I knocked again, louder this time. “Room service,” I called out, with my mouth close to the door. “Room service coming in,” I repeated, feeling ridiculous. Still nothing happened on the other side. I looked left and right then depressed the handle.
It was locked, of course. I put the gun away, took out my wallet and selected an old plastic library card. This sort of thing worked in the movies, right? I forced the card into the narrow crack between the edge of the door and doorframe and slid it down to the metal plate where the lock bar was located. Somehow I had to get the card stuck in behind the bar. I wiggled the card up and down while simultaneously jiggling the door handle. This combination seemed to rock the lock bar and I felt the plastic card snick in and get caught
at the top. I sensed that I was nearly there.
While I’d been at the door, the elevator had descended and risen again. Some sixth sense now made me aware of it. Sure enough, it dinged its arrival on the third floor.
My heart raced and I barely kept myself from panicking. Another couple of seconds was all I needed. I bent the card away from the door handle and felt the bar slide back into the body of the lock. The room door opened at the same instant as the elevator.
I dived into the room, shut the door quickly but quietly, and jammed my ear tight against it.
Outside, the elevator door closed again and someone, obviously a woman in heels, walked past me and down the hall. A lock clicked, another door opened and closed. I let out the breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.
The suite I found myself in was big and I guessed it was the best in the hotel. The two double beds and pull-out couch bed could have accommodated an entire family. With the gun back in my hand, I quickly confirmed that the bathroom just beyond and the clothes closet beside it were both empty of any human occupant.
An expensive looking Nikon camera with a telephoto lens lay on the nearest bed. I reached out to pick it up then froze my hand in mid-air. It looked complicated, with lots of buttons. I had no idea how to scroll through the images and by the time I’d found the right buttons I could accidently have changed some of the settings. Then he’d know that someone had been at it. It was tempting, but could I risk it?
To hell with that. The whiskey was surging through my bloodstream. I picked the camera up, felt its heavy weight and examined the buttons at the back of it. I found the ‘On’ button and pressed it. Images started to display on the view screen.
I felt blood drain from my face and suddenly I was stone cold sober. The camera was full of photographs of my house, the cottage, and me. It was an eerie, unsettling experience to scroll through the images and realise just how closely my otherwise mundane life had been observed and recorded. I switched the camera off with a sense of relief, and placed it carefully back on the bed, exactly where it had been before.
Shadow of a Killer Page 11
